My story “Pale Sire,” which has appeared on this very blog, has been accepted to be read on the Tales To Terrify podcast. I will, of course, update the blog with the date and time as I have them. As always, thanks for reading!
As I mentioned in a previous post, my short story “The Mother of Foresight” will be appearing in an ebook anthology called The Nightmare Collective published by Play With Death. The anthology also includes stories by Tom Wortman, M. B. Vujačić, Manen Lyset, Kyle Yadlosky, G. T. Montgomery, Ari Drew, Patrick Winters, Trevor James Zaple, John Teel, Dexter Findley, and Kyle Rader. For the first week after its release, the book will be a FREE DOWNLOAD! Click this link and sign up to get notified when the ebook is released!
Well, kiddos, it’s been a crazy week, hence my relative dearth of posts, but you’ll be edified to know that a bunch of stuff has been going on behind the scenes, so here’s a brief wrap-up!
If you happen to live in the central Florida area (and I know I do), then put on your charity panties and head on down to the Whole Planet Music & Art Festival at Bombshell’s Tavern! It’s a big ol’ concert event put on by a few good friends of mine, and all proceeds will benefit the Whole Planet Foundation. There will be bands and art and general debauchery (probably), plus there will be a raffle in which you may WIN music and art from local performers, or perhaps even a SIGNED copy of either my novel Bellwether or my short story collection The Associated Villainies! Please try to make the trip if you can!
The book I coauthored with the God of Hellfire himself, The Mammoth Mountain Poltergeist, should be out by next week! The proof copy is making its way toward me as we speak, and provided there are no terrible fuckups, the book should be for sale on Amazon and the regular channels very soon. By the way, if you or someone you know has a paranormal blog, podcast or suchlike on which you’d be willing to review the book and/or interview its charming authors, shoot me a message and I’ll get you a free copy and all the info you may need. I’m also planning on doing a giveaway for free copies on Amazon sometime in the next few weeks, so keep watching this space!
Remember, my short story “The Mother of Foresight” will be appearing in the new ebook horror anthology coming next month from Play With Death. More details as I have them.
And finally, please remember I still have that Patreon campaign going, so if you’d like to contribute a few bucks and get yourself some sweet writer-style swag, click the link and give until it hurts. Or at least until it mildly stings, y’know the kind of sting you get when you just scrape your knee and can make it feel better by spraying some Bactine on it. Let’s not get too insane here.
Oh, and speaking of insanity, did you guys see “The Walking Dead” this past Sunday? Holy FUCKBALLS, y’all. Shit’s getting real. I think I may need therapy. Hold me.
Until next time, Goddess out!
A strange gathering of intellectual luminaries during one “haunted summer” produced one of literature’s most enduring creations.
Frankenstein’s monster is one of the most ubiquitous characters in popular culture, appearing everywhere from movies and novels to children’s toys and cereal boxes. Though the image we have of the lumbering creature today—greenish skin, square head, beetling brow, ropy scars and neck bolts—has been largely formed by Boris Karloff’s stunning portrayal in the Universal horror films of the 1930s, in the beginning, the monster was literally dreamed into existence under rather eerie circumstances by an eighteen-year-old girl.
Summer in Switzerland
It was May 14, 1816. Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and his “wife” Mary (the couple only married later that year, though Mary already used his last name) had been invited by friend and fellow poet Lord Byron to visit him at a rented chateau, Villa Deodati, on Lake Geneva in Switzerland. Also joining the festivities were Mary’s stepsister Claire Clairemont—who was pregnant with Byron’s child and was trying to get back into his good graces—and Byron’s personal physician John Polidori.
The gathering apparently started out quite idyllic—the friends spent long hours writing, discussing weighty ideas, and boating in the lake. But a short time after the group arrived, the weather took a bizarre turn, and it seemed the streaks of lightning and the torrents of rain would never cease. Mary and the others were confined to the house for many days.
More reading and discussion ensued. Particular topics of conversation included the early evolution theories of Erasmus Darwin, as well as the new science of galvanism. Also contributing to the entertainment of the group was a book of German ghost stories called Fantasmagoria, which the friends took turns reading aloud.
The combination of the macabre tales and the isolating weather seemed to have strange effects on everyone present; Percy Shelley, at one point, succumbed to visions that sent him screaming from the room. Later, Shelley claimed that Byron’s reading of the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem “Cristabel” had brought to mind the image of a woman with eyes instead of nipples, which horrified him.
Setting to Work
Some time after this incident, the group decided that they would each try to write their own ghost story. Most set to work immediately and produced tales of varying quality. Byron wrote a story fragment titled “The Burial,” which was later published as a postscript to his narrative poem Mazeppa. Shelley wrote a tale called “The Assassins,” which apparently never saw the light of day (though his poem Mont Blanc, written around the same time, was published later that year). Dr. Polidori wrote “The Vampyre,” later expanded to novel length, which was the first vampire story published in English and which some speculate might have been an inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, written 78 years later.
The Monster Is Born
Mary Shelley, however, couldn’t think of an idea for a story, and had to respond with a frustrated “No” when asked by the others if she had begun work on it. But then, one night, she had a terrible nightmare. She woke violently amid the sounds of the storm howling outside. The dream had been so vivid that she had a difficult time believing it hadn’t been real. Since she was too shaken to sleep, she began writing down her dream, in which “a pale student of the unhallowed arts” used bits of corpses to create a man. “By the glimmer of the half-extinguished light,” she wrote, “I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.”
Mary’s terrifying dream was described verbatim in the story she presented to the others. Though the first draft was only about 100 pages long, Percy loved the story and encouraged Mary to flesh it out. She did, and two years after the strange events at Lake Geneva, the story was published as Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, thus introducing one of literature’s most frightening figures to the world at large.
February, in case you hadn’t heard, has been designated Women In Horror month, and even though I gotta admit I’m kinda longing for a future where female horror writers will be so commonplace that it will be unnecessary to even remark upon them, I do feel like we vagina-havers still need our own month for now. That’s because, for whatever reason, women who write horror are still thought of as something of a novelty, or at very least a tad oddball. It’s a lot better than it used to be, sure, but even in this enlightened year of 2015, it’s not unusual for a horror anthology to come out containing no women authors at all, and there’s still a lingering perception that women don’t like horror as much as the guys do, or they don’t write it as well, or something, since apparently we’re all just precious delicate flowers who could never possibly enjoy the song of the chainsaw, the call of Cthulhu, the visceral thrill of seeing someone’s spine forcefully extricated through their mouth. I guess there’s a similar bullshit thing going on with female comedians and “girl geeks,” but I’m not really gonna go into all that because this is a horror blog, and I gotta stay focused on the topic without going off on a rant. Anyway, since I’m a woman who has always loved everything to do with the horror genre, I’ve decided to celebrate Women In Horror Month by honoring a few of my favorite “girl” writers in the genre with this humble blog post. So here we go.
Shirley Jackson – The Haunting of Hill House
I know I talk about this book a lot (and I wrote a whole blog post about the fantastic film adaptation as well), but that’s because it is probably my favorite horror novel of all time, and easily one of the best horror novels of the 20th century. In Ms. Jackson’s capable hands, something as pedestrian as a haunted house story becomes a multilayered, intensely terrifying study of psychological breakdown. Her masterful characterization of Eleanor Vance is one of the best in literature of any genre, and I would defend that statement to the grave. If you love Haunting of Hill House, and I know I do, also check out her other novels The Sundial and We Have Always Lived in the Castle, which explore similar themes.
Anne Rivers Siddons – The House Next Door
Another haunted house story (because you know how much I love those), but from the completely opposite side of the spectrum as Jackson’s novel. The haunting in The House Next Door takes place in a fancy, newly-built contemporary pad thrown onto an odd-shaped lot by a hot-shot architect in a chi-chi Atlanta suburb. The main players are agonizingly upper-crust, status-conscious, and at times completely snobbish and obnoxious, but their unlikeability makes their fates that much more devastating. The cursed-from-birth house next door doesn’t contain anything as gauche as a spirit, exactly, but more like a force that somehow knows and plays upon the residents’ deepest fears and insecurities, and dishes out scares accordingly. A fresh take on the subgenre, and a satisfying one.
Doris Lessing – The Fifth Child
A supremely literary horror story, and a short one clocking in at only 150 pages, but its tentacles grasp tightly. Somewhat reminiscent of Rosemary’s Baby, The Fifth Child sees “perfect” married couple David and Harriet pushing out one kid after another, much to the consternation of their extended families, who fear that the couple cannot care for the ones they already have. The first four kids are pretty much okay, but that fifth one, as the title suggests, is a doozy. A concise and terrifying examination of family dynamics and the social expectations surrounding the bearing of children.
Poppy Z. Brite – Exquisite Corpse
Perhaps this isn’t a fair choice for a “women in horror” post, since Poppy (born Melissa Ann Brite) has since undergone gender reassignment and now prefers to be known as Billy Martin, but at the time this novel was written she was still identified by a female pronoun as far as I know, so I’m going to include it. It’s a shockingly sick tale of two serial killers (based on real-life nutcases Dennis Nilsen and Jeffrey Dahmer) who join forces in order to find “the perfect victim.” They find their unicorn in the form of a pretty Vietnamese boy named Tran, and the story spirals into horrific madness from there. All of Brite’s trademarks are present, from the obsession with twisted killers to a fixation on the darkest and seediest underbellies of New Orleans. This is an intensely gory and profoundly fucked-up (but fantastic) novel.
Caitlín R. Kiernan – The Red Tree
Kiernan has written a lot of great books, including several pleasingly Lovecraftian ones. The Red Tree is the creepy tale of a woman named Sarah who moves to an old house in the woods after a terrible breakup and becomes obsessed with the ancient tree growing in the backyard, and the manuscript she finds that seems to hint that the tree conceals some terrible secret. If you like this one, I’d also recommend Silk and Low Red Moon by the same author.
Until next time, Goddess out.
It is the eve of the day of looooove, my dears, and to get you in the proper mood for the big red-drenched event, here is a properly horrific love story I wrote called “Here Comes the Bride.” It’s as fitting as a wedding dress on a rotting corpse; I think you’ll agree. It is also available in my short story collection Hopeful Monsters, which you may purchase if you so desire. Also remember that I still have that Patreon campaign going, so if you’ve any love left over after your V-Day load is spent, spare a drop or two for the Goddess, and you will be amply rewarded. And now, on with the dripping red love…
“You’re not bringing that girl here.”
Troy’s father was yelling, and even though Troy curled his body down as small as it would go, burrowing under the covers and clapping his hands over his ears, the man’s voice still resonated through his head like the toll of a great bell.
“Your father’s right, Troy.” Mother had gotten into the act too, and even though Troy couldn’t see her from his position, he could imagine her glossy pursed lips, her deeply furrowed brow. “We don’t even know this girl. And you know what happened those other times.”
Troy had a feeling his older sister would chime in next, and he was not disappointed. “How could you even get a girl anyway?” Sue sneered as Troy pressed his palms harder against the side of his head, trying to block out the sounds. “You sure you didn’t pay this one?”
Troy felt a single tear trickle down his cheek, and in its wake came a hatred made stronger by the knowledge of his fierce love for them—his family, his eternal tormentors. Their voices were all mixed together now, raining down on him from above, hemming him in with their ridicule until he was closed into an atom-sized box that he could see no escape from. He might have screamed, but because of the din of mingled shouts he couldn’t be sure. He pushed at his temples as hard as he dared, making flashbulbs of white light explode into the darkness behind his eyes. He knew they would stop berating him eventually, knew there would be blessed silence after they’d exhausted their vocabularies of disgust for him; but in the meantime there was only noise and pain, infinite in its intensity.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the voices finally started to dwindle—perhaps only minutes had gone by, perhaps lifetimes. Slowly, Troy removed his hands from his ears; the fingers were numb and sluggish, feeling as though they belonged to someone else. He pulled the covers away from his face and opened one eye a crack, peering into the gloomy dusk of his bedroom. Everyone was gone, and quiet reigned at last; the only sounds he could hear now were the reassuring hum of the central air conditioning and the distant buzz of a plane passing overhead. He sighed and fell back against the pillows, letting the cool air from the vents dry the layer of sweat on his skin. His family was upset, he knew, but he also knew that they would soon get over it. They would have to; Sonja was coming tomorrow. And when they met her, all their negative feelings would evaporate. They would love her, just as Troy loved her, and perhaps in her glow they would come to see Troy himself in a different light.
“She’s already on her way,” he whispered to his empty room, hugging himself with his long, pale arms. “Wait until you all see her.”
Candy Rattner, otherwise known as Sonja Andropova, threaded her way through the airport, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder. She’d just flown in from Cleveland, but she had to hustle over to the international terminal, where the sap was picking her up. She’d told him she was arriving from Moscow, and of course he’d bought it. Why shouldn’t he?
As she walked, she practiced some Russian phrases under her breath, paying special attention to her accent. In her experience, Americans were generally not very observant about languages as long as she sounded suitably exotic—hell, most of them wouldn’t know a Russian word if it bit them on the ass. But each new scam was different, and one could never be too careful.
Candy hopped on the tram that ran between terminals, holding on to the silver bar with both hands and ignoring the appreciative glances of the rumpled businessmen leaning against the back of the car. She knew she was beautiful—her body tall and lithe, her olive skin flawless, her abundant black hair swept dramatically back from her sculptured face. She supposed she enjoyed the attention to a point, but deep down she understood that her appearance was simply a tool of her trade, a means to an end. She stretched, catlike, giving the businessmen a show, then switched her bag to her other shoulder.
The tram shuddered to a halt and Candy disembarked, moving smoothly through the crowd on her long legs. Her dark eyes scanned the signs, and when she saw one pointing toward the main terminal, she headed down a carpeted gangway, her jeweled sandals—shabby and a few years out of style—slapping against her heels. She glanced at her watch and frowned. Her flight from Cleveland had been delayed, but she still thought she could make it to the meeting point before Troy did.
Sighing, she thought of her latest mark. She had never met him before, of course—their most in-depth conversations had occurred over the Internet. She’d never even heard his voice. He had emailed her pictures of himself, though. He was a handsome young man, a little intense; not that it particularly mattered to her what any of them looked like. He had also sent her pictures of his house, and these she had scrutinized with great interest. The guy was clearly loaded, or at least his parents were. She remembered sitting in front of the computer in her two-room Cleveland apartment, grinning from ear to ear as she stared at that marvelous spread. If she could pull off this one gig, she had thought to herself, then maybe she’d be able to retire from the racket for good.
There was a large fountain in the middle of the terminal, its blue waters spewing foam high above the heads of the passing travelers, its rushing roar muffling all sound within a hundred-yard radius. Candy scanned the fountain’s marble lip, searching for a lanky, sandy-haired figure whose facial expression would suggest expectation, desperation, and perhaps just the faintest touch of shame. She saw no one, and her tense muscles relaxed a little. She felt around in her pants pocket, coming up with a crumpled five-dollar bill, then ducked into a nearby Starbucks for a latte to drink while she waited.
Troy spotted his beautiful bride at once. She was even more radiant than he had hoped, her taut figure perched gracefully on the edge of the fountain, her demure profile seeming to shimmer against the dull gray backdrop of the passersby. She was drinking coffee and peering down at an open book in her lap; a closer inspection revealed it to be an English phrase book.
For a moment Troy was loath to approach her, afraid she would twinkle out of existence like the crystalline falls of water that framed her angelic form. So much was riding on this meeting—what would Mother and Father say? They hadn’t come with him, but he could still hear their scornful voices echoing in his head. He clenched his fists by his sides and straightened his back, quickening his pace. He would make his family accept Sonja as his wife, that was all there was to it. She was right there in front of him, like a dream become flesh. She was perfect.
Candy felt his presence before she saw him.
When she looked up, he was standing no more than two feet from her, leaning slightly forward, his expression a little dazed. She was taken aback at his sudden nearness, but managed a quick smile. “You are…Troy?” she said in her practiced, broken accent.
There was a longer pause than was warranted, and Candy’s inner alarm seemed poised to jingle, warning her to abort the mission, which was how she always thought of these deals. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity in which the pounding water of the fountain served as the only distraction, Troy answered, “Yes.”
She smiled again, more broadly, hoping to conceal the uneasiness that had sprouted in her stomach. She couldn’t give up on this one, she thought; it might be her ticket out. She felt like she should say something more to him, but she couldn’t think of a single thing. “We go?” she asked at last, not wanting to sound too eager but wanting to fill the pounding silence up with words, however meaningless.
“Yes.” Troy seemed to snap out of whatever trance had held him, and he began looking around at her feet. “Do you have any other bags?”
Candy scowled prettily, as if trying to parse the sentence he’d just uttered, then brightened as pretended understanding dawned. She patted the duffel bag by her side. “This is only bag.”
Troy’s face seemed to sag a little at that, but he quickly recovered, holding out his hand. “Here, I’ll carry it for you.”
She let him take it, then got to her feet. She was nearly the same height as he was. As he headed for the signs marked Parking Garage, she kept a few steps behind him, smiling brilliantly whenever he glanced over his shoulder at her, which was unsettlingly often.
Candy studied him as they made their way out of the terminal. He was a little thinner than his pictures had suggested, but clearly in good physical shape. He was clean and well-groomed, his slacks and white dress shirt freshly pressed. He’d given his age as twenty-five, but to Candy he seemed a little younger than that, earnest and eager to please.
They reached the parking garage, neither having spoken. Candy gazed admiringly at the pearl gray Infiniti as Troy loaded her bag in the trunk. He came around and opened the door for her, which she thought was very sweet; as she got into the passenger seat, she rewarded him by lifting her skirt with a subtle hand motion, exposing a few inches of smooth upper thigh.
They exchanged few words on the drive; Candy was afraid of giving too much away, of slipping up in her finely crafted persona, and Troy, for his part, simply seemed nervous. He adhered strictly to the speed limit, she noticed, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
After about forty minutes of silence, with not even a radio playing softly to fill the gap, the uneasy feeling began creeping into Candy’s stomach again. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, when suddenly Troy flipped on his blinker and turned off the road onto a narrow paved track surrounded by thick, overhanging trees. He turned toward her in the ensuing dimness. “Almost there,” he said.
She smiled and nodded, forgetting about making small talk in her eagerness to see her new surroundings. She leaned forward a little in her seat, peering intently through the windshield.
The house, when it emerged from the dense foliage, was far more fantastic than she had imagined. It was a palace, plain and simple, comparable to those sprawling English country estates she’d always lusted after in those old Merchant-Ivory movies. There was an enormous pond in front, grown over with algae but still dazzling, with a stone statue of a cherubic boy in its center, frolicking under a fountain of water that no longer flowed. The gardens were extensive, if a little overgrown; the flowerbeds needed weeding and some of the hedges were due for a prune, but otherwise the expanse was magnificent.
And then there was the house itself. Candy couldn’t help gaping at it as Troy guided the car around the circular gravel driveway. The main structure was made of a softly glowing stone of a speckled caramel color that blended organically with the surroundings. There appeared to be a massive center hub flanked by two wings, each with an octagonal tower topped with distressed castellations. There were numerous small square windows, many of them bearing intricate stained glass designs. The entire spread bore the unmistakable aura of vast wealth and power.
After a few moments, Candy became aware that Troy had stopped the car and turned in his seat to look at her with his rather unnervingly open expression. She could see that he wanted very much to please her. That was good, very good. “Do you like it?” he asked.
Candy was so overwhelmed by her unbelievable luck that she almost forgot to speak with a Russian accent. Catching herself just in time, she said, “It is so…beautiful. I did not know America looked like this.”
Troy laughed, and there was a hard edge to it that Candy didn’t like. “Most of it doesn’t. But this is your home now. Your life.” He smiled widely, and his teeth were very white in the shadows of the car’s interior.
If the outside of the house was beyond imagination, then the inside was almost surreal. As she entered through the carved wooden doors, she felt like an ant who had just stumbled over the threshold of Notre Dame—the ceilings soared high above her, inlaid with complicated tile patterns and alternating colors of polished stone. She held her breath, afraid that even the sound of a sigh would bounce back to deafen her.
“I’ll take your bag upstairs,” Troy said, his voice coming from all directions at once. “You can look around some if you want to. Don’t get lost, though.” That predatory smile again.
“I will just sit in here,” she said, gesturing to a sitting room on her left. She didn’t want to admit it, but the sheer vastness of the house frightened her. She had targeted quite a few rich guys in her time, but none of them had been this rich. She felt as though she might pass out at any moment. “Is okay?”
Troy shrugged. “Sure. When I come back down I’ll make us some tea and we can talk. Later on I’ll give you a tour, and then you can meet the family.”
Candy nodded and watched as he disappeared up the curving staircase with its iron banisters. When he’d gone, she wandered into the sitting room, which was filled to brimming with fussy claw-footed furniture that looked as though it had never been sat on. She poked into a couple of the drawers and highboys, but found nothing of interest. A few of the vases in the corners looked terribly expensive; perhaps they were Ming or something like that. There was even gold flocked wallpaper, of all things; Candy stepped toward the wall for a closer look, and noticed that there were lighter gold rectangles at even intervals along the walls, as though pictures had once hung there. She wondered what they had been, and why they had been removed.
A few moments later she heard raised voices, and ducked her shoulders guiltily before realizing they were coming from upstairs. She crept back out into the hallway to listen, removing her shoes on the way so their heels wouldn’t flap and echo. She couldn’t really tell what was being said, but she heard Troy, a reedy, defensive whine, and then another male voice, deeper, authoritative. There were women’s voices too—one or two of them, Candy wasn’t sure. She assumed the family was not too pleased about her arrival, and her uneasiness ramped up another few notches. Surely Troy had worked this all out before arranging for her to come here? She hoped this whole gig was going to run smoothly; she hadn’t really bargained on uncooperative relatives sticking their noses in.
The voices died down, and then she heard footsteps reverberating over her head. She darted back into the sitting room and installed herself on the edge of one of the settees, snatching an architectural magazine from an end table and pretending to leaf through it. When Troy appeared on the threshold, she looked up expectantly, as if she’d been waiting for him all along. “Okay?” she said. She didn’t want him to know what she had heard; it might complicate matters.
His jaw seemed tight, but otherwise he gave no outward sign of distress. “Your things are in one of the guest rooms for now,” he said, and then his face reddened as he realized the implications of his statement. “I mean, there are lots of empty rooms. You can stay in whichever one you want.” He grinned awkwardly, then made a stiff gesture for her to follow him. “We’ll have tea out on the sundeck.”
After flashing him a look of pleasant blankness, as though she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about, she began trailing along behind him, soon losing all sense of direction in the maze of twisting corridors. At last they entered a kitchen big enough to park a 747 in, and Troy set to work, pulling cups and saucers from one of a long phalanx of cabinets. Candy wondered why there were no servants, but she thought it better not to ask just yet.
While he worked, Candy made her way down the small hallway he’d indicated, which terminated in a pair of blue glass doors. She opened these and proceeded out onto a huge wooden deck that overlooked part of the gardens. Candy sat at one of the umbrella-covered tables, staring out at the early fall blossoms and wondering what in the hell she’d gotten herself into.
After tea and an awkward conversation in which the main thing Candy learned about her future “husband” was that he was the most socially inept person she had ever met, Troy cleaned up the dishes and led Candy on a rather perfunctory tour of the house. The doors of most of the rooms were closed, and stayed closed, usually with Troy explaining that the rooms were empty or only used for storage.
The house was vast and beautiful, and Candy tried to work up the requisite enthusiasm as she followed him around, but the flight and the stress of beginning a new con had finally caught up with her. “I am sorry, Troy,” she said haltingly. “I am very tired. Maybe finish another time?”
A deep, thunderous frown crossed his face so quickly that Candy wasn’t even sure if she had seen it. “That’s all right,” he said, taking her arm gently and leading her back down the hallway they’d just traversed. “You can rest in your room for a while, if you want. Then later we’ll have some dinner, and meet the family if they’re around.”
Candy’s stomach lurched at the prospect, but she only nodded and let herself be led through the already unfamiliar corridors.
At last Troy stopped before a door, opened it, and guided her inside. For one uncomfortable moment, it seemed as though he was going to follow Candy into the room, but with a jolt he stopped just a few paces over the threshold. He stood there, fists opening and closing by his sides.
“Thank you,” said Candy, hoping he’d take the hint, too tired to even look around at her new digs.
After a moment, Troy bowed his head at her once, formally, like a butler, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Candy let out a sigh of relief, immediately making for the massive bed that dominated one corner of the room, slipping off her shoes and setting them next to the duffel bag that Troy had brought up earlier. She wondered if he had looked through it, then decided she didn’t much care if he had. Let the sad bastard get a few jollies sifting through her unmentionables, she thought with a wry grin.
She stretched out on the bed, which was almost criminally comfortable, if a tad musty-smelling. She thought she’d fall asleep right away, but she just lay there, aching muscles slowly unfurling but her exhausted brain refusing to settle.
She assessed her situation. First of all, this was the biggest con by far that she’d ever attempted, and she had to fight the vaguely queasy feeling that she was in way over her head. The con would work the same, she told herself—how rich the guys were didn’t matter. And one look at handsome, sheltered Troy convinced her that he’d be a piece of cake to manipulate. He was clearly desperate for a woman; she speculated that he might be a virgin, which would make her job even easier.
She was worried about his family, though. From the sound of their shrieking this afternoon, she deduced that they were none too pleased with this whole situation, with her presence here. If they were able to get to him, to poison him against her…
But no, she couldn’t let that happen. She’d just have to play it cool—be nice as pie to the family when she met them, but then try to subtly undermine their influence whenever she was alone with Troy. Make it seem like it was him and her against his meddling relations. Yes, that was the smartest way to play it. She’d have to be careful that she didn’t get the idiot disowned, but hopefully she’d have made the haul and taken off before things got to that point.
Candy slowly realized that the same shouting she’d heard earlier had started again; she’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed it, so for all she knew it could have been going on for a while. Still tired, but galvanized by curiosity, she slid off the bed and crept toward the door, pressing her ear against the wood, listening.
It was the deep male voice speaking, which she assumed belonged to Troy’s father. Candy could only make out random phrases and stray words, but the man’s tone was one of obvious rage, but also, she thought, a hint of resignation.
“How is it…different?” the man bellowed, and Candy could almost imagine Troy cowering under the authority of that booming voice.
She heard Troy uttering something unintelligible that ended with “marry me,” then he said, “She’ll…I ask.”
Candy cursed under her breath. What had he meant by all that? She’ll do whatever I ask? Her frown deepened. Man, if he thought that, he was dealing with the wrong Russian mail-order bride.
The father was speaking again, louder. “We can’t…for you,” he said, and Candy clenched her fists in frustration. What the hell were they saying?
There was another exchange that she caught none of, and then there was the definite sound of a door slamming and heavy footsteps coming closer through the hallways. Quickly, Candy climbed back onto the bed and feigned sleep. A moment later, there was a firm knock on the bedroom door. She thought if she ignored it then Troy would go away, but the knocking persisted. Angry and strangely fearful, she got up again and slipped back into her shoes—because it seemed vulgar to converse in one’s bare feet in a house as grand as this one—and opened the door.
It was not Troy who stood there. This man seemed taller and broader, with a strong resemblance to Troy but with something harder behind the eyes. The blonde hair was shot through with gray, the skin around the eyes and mouth darkened by fine wrinkles. “You’re Sonja,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Candy thought it odd that he had addressed her by her first name, but she let it go. “Yes.”
“And you are here to marry my son.” The flinty eyes narrowed, taking in her face, her body, her entire being.
Candy hesitated, her mind racing, but then said, “If your son will…accept me.” She lowered her gaze and then raised it again, like a deferential bow.
This seemed to be the correct answer, because the man’s features visibly softened. His eyes still glinted like steel, though. “You may have noticed that my son is a little…shy.” He was seemingly embarrassed to be discussing something as feminine as emotions. “He’s had his problems, I’ll admit that. But I hope that this time he’s found someone who can relate to him. Someone who will…stick around.”
Candy remembered to look pained, to pause as though struggling to understand the language. “Yes,” she said, thinking that the man’s use of the phrase ‘this time’ pointed to her not being the first, wondering how much harder that was going to make matters. “I think…I will like Troy.”
The man brightened, and suddenly he seemed much younger, more like a man than an obdurate brick wall. He even reached toward her, briefly, before catching himself, glancing in horror at the hand that had seemingly betrayed him. Then he backed up a few steps before turning and lumbering down the hall, not saying another word.
Candy closed the bedroom door, disturbed and relieved in equal measure. She was glad to see that Troy’s father wasn’t the ogre she’d been expecting, but that strange gesture just now, when he’d wanted to touch her… She shook her head. She’d have to watch herself around him, that was certain.
The exhaustion hit her again, more insistent this time, so, not even bothering to take off her shoes, she flopped across the bed and was asleep in an instant.
Troy was rooting around in the attic, sneezing uncontrollably at the clouds of dust he was kicking up, sending squealing rodents from corners with his clumsy maneuvering. He wasn’t worried about the noise he was making; Sonja’s room was two floors below in the opposite wing, and besides, when he’d peeked in on her earlier she had been sound asleep.
Troy tried to put the image of the beautiful Sonja stretched across the bedclothes out of his mind so that he could concentrate on the task at hand. He knew the key to the special room was around here somewhere; he had kept it well hidden for years, saving it for the momentous occasion of his marriage. He poked his fingers into the drawer of an antique jewelry box, but came up with nothing except dust and the desiccated carcass of a dead silverfish. Scowling, he wiped his hands on his trousers and opened the next drawer. Nothing there either. He was beginning to worry that someone had moved the key, but who could have possibly done that? Nobody knew about it but him, nobody came up to the attic but him. He had just forgotten where he put it, that was all. He was always misplacing things, and anyway, it was a long time ago.
At last he came across the key in the bottom of an empty violin case, tucked under a flap of decaying velvet. He didn’t remember putting it there, but that didn’t matter now. Curling the rusty metal into his fist, he made his way to the narrow staircase, leaving the attic in disarray behind him.
Once back in the hallway, he found himself so excited that he couldn’t keep from running down the carpeted corridors, taking the servants’ stairs down from the third floor to the second. His special room was in the very farthest corner of the east wing, a large oval chamber that looked out into the closed-in back garden. He tried to picture it now, as he hurried toward it, tried to set it in his mind before he saw it, to test himself. Over the years he had lovingly assembled every piece of furniture, every tiny detail in the room, in preparation for his wedding night. He could hardly believe the day was almost here; his heart felt as big as a bass drum in his chest.
At last, breathing hard, he reached the door to the room that he would share with his wife. He had always kept it locked; even when the maids had been here, they had been under strict orders never to enter it. Troy was the only one allowed inside; once he had arranged it to his satisfaction, he had sealed it up tight, only checking it every three months or so, cleaning and airing out.
He thought a ceremonial pause would be in order, but his excitement was too great. He thrust the key into the lock and turned it, simultaneously pushing the door inward and breathing in the scent of the place, the enchanting combined fragrance of rosewood and iron, old incense and fresh industrial rubber.
When Candy awoke she had no idea where she was for the first few minutes. Night must have fallen; the stained glass windows were black behind their colors. She sat up in bed, wincing at the pain in her stiff neck, and groped for the lamp on the end table. In its glow she could see the secretive contours of the room, strange but slowly becoming familiar. She caught a tang of perfume and wondered if someone had looked in on her.
After she had washed up in the adjoining bathroom and changed into a clean dress from her duffel bag, she decided she’d better track down her host. The house around her seemed deathly silent, but she supposed that wasn’t surprising given its great size. Perhaps the family had gone out.
As soon as she was in the hallway, she caught the unmistakable aroma of meat cooking, and she quickened her pace, suddenly ravenous. It took her a few false turns and dead ends, but she finally found the marble staircase leading to the ground floor, and from there she followed her nose to the kitchen.
A woman stood at the stove, her back facing Candy. This was Troy’s mother, she presumed, as the woman was also blonde, slim like Troy was, with long spindly arms and legs. She apparently hadn’t heard Candy come in, for she didn’t turn. Candy cleared her throat, loudly, and the woman jumped.
“Oh. Sonja.” The woman smiled and wiped her hands on a tea towel, approaching Candy with an open, friendly expression. Candy found it hard to square this woman’s demeanor with the shrill harridan she’d heard berating Troy earlier, but maybe she was just very good at hiding her true feelings. “You startled me, dear. I’m Alice, Troy’s mother.”
“Sonja Andropova.” Candy shook the woman’s hand. “Very nice to meet.”
“So, you’re from Russia.” Alice glided back to the stove, stirring something in a large silver saucepan. “What part?”
“Moscow.” Candy had considered telling the marks she was from some remote part of Russia, some village with an unpronounceable name, but she found that people were far more accommodating if they’d heard of the place she mentioned. Besides, she’d been to Moscow once, as a student, so she figured she knew enough about the place to bluff a little if she had to.
“Ah. Lovely place.” Alice didn’t say any more about Russia, and Candy was glad. “Have you met Leonard?”
“Leonard is…Troy’s father?”
“Yes.” Candy hesitated, thinking of how the man had come to her room. “Yes,” she said. “In…hallway.” She twisted her hands. “Where is Troy?” she asked, not really because she cared, but just trying to make conversation.
Alice continued stirring. “Oh, I’m sure he’s around. You’ll see him at dinner. Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat in the dining room?”
It felt like a dismissal, though the woman’s friendly tone never altered. Candy left the kitchen, not knowing exactly where the dining room was, but wandering around until she found it.
There was a large table in the center, draped with white linen and impeccably set for two people. Candy, confused, slid into a chair before one of the place settings. Wasn’t the whole family going to eat together?
Twenty minutes passed on the mantel clock as she waited, every now and then leaving her seat to study the crystal bowls in the china cabinet, or to stare out one of the long narrow windows at the overgrown gardens, lit at this hour by spotlights mounted on the side of the house.
Finally she heard a noise behind her, and turned to see not Alice, but Troy, his hot-padded hands bearing a huge ceramic bowl that appeared to be filled with a thick stew. He smiled at her as he set the bowl in the middle of the table, then he reached into his pocket and produced a Bic, which he used to light the two red candles in the table’s centerpiece. “I’ll just go get the bread,” he told her, and then disappeared before Candy could ask what was going on. When he returned, he carried a big basket filled with sliced bread that smelled as though it had just come out of the oven. Candy felt her mouth watering; she hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
“Please sit down,” Troy said, and as she did he answered her unasked question. “I thought it would be nice for just the two of us to have dinner together. The others will eat later.”
Candy thought this odd, since she and Troy had already had tea alone together and found not a single thing to talk about, and since she hadn’t been formally introduced to the family at large. But of course she kept her mouth shut. The rich were eccentric, she knew, and this family’s quirks were really no weirder than those of some of her other marks.
They passed the meal in relative silence, Troy seemingly wanting to talk but unable to think of anything to say, Candy concentrating on the food and on not giving herself away by saying something stupid or out of character. At one point, Troy attempted to start a conversation about his childhood, but it sputtered out fairly quickly.
Once Candy had finished two bowls of stew and four slices of the thick bread, she began to feel sleepy again and ready to go back upstairs to bed. To this end, she pushed her chair away from the table and made to excuse herself, but then Troy very suddenly announced, “We’ll be married tomorrow.”
She froze, trying not to let the shock of the statement show on her face. “So soon?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
Troy’s expression clouded over. “Don’t you want to?”
“Of course! Is okay.” Candy smiled, placating, hoping he didn’t notice the sweat that beaded upon her brow.
Troy seemed mollified. “It’s all arranged,” he said, and his gaze grew distant, as though looking through reality to what lay beyond.
“I’ve even got a dress for you. And a special room for us. Wait until you see. It will be perfect.”
Candy nodded encouragingly, then chugged half a glass of water in one go, trying to quell the panic. This was not in the plan at all— she’d never had any intention of actually marrying this guy. What was she going to do? Marriage would make everything legal, make her (and the money) easier to track down. On the other hand, if she skipped out tonight, she left with nothing; she’d be abandoning what promised to be the most lucrative score of her life, perhaps the one she could retire on. Her head began to pound.
Troy was saying something else, but she wasn’t really listening. She was so tired, and she had to think. She held up her hand to silence him. “Please. I am sorry. I must go back to bed now. We will talk more in the morning.” He looked to be getting angry again, so she hastily added, “I am very excited to see the dress.”
He was clearly still wary, but he smiled. “Sure, of course you need your rest. Big day tomorrow.” His smile stretched to disturbing proportions.
“Yes.” Candy got up from the table. “Good night, Troy.”
“Good night, darling.”
Candy’s skin crawled as she made her way out of the dining room and back through the profusion of corridors and staircases that eventually led back to her room. Once there, she tried to lock the door, but found she had no key. Instead she wedged a heavy upholstered chair against the door and then sat down on the bed, thinking. She was so exhausted that she could hardly keep her eyes open, but she forced herself to stay awake. She had to figure out a plan.
It was obvious she had to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. She hated having to abort a mission as potentially enriching as this one, but Troy was seriously weird, if not completely unhinged, and things were progressing to escape velocity too quickly for her. She wasn’t sticking around in order to get embroiled in a legal—not to mention probably sexual—bond with the freak downstairs and his elusive family.
She yawned expansively, then stood up and began moving around. Why the hell was she so damn tired?
Sluggishly, she set about gathering the few items she’d taken out of her duffel bag and repacking them. She thought it best to make her escape right away, while Troy was otherwise occupied in the kitchen. She didn’t think he’d be able to hear her leave. She didn’t have a car, but she remembered it wasn’t far to the main road—once there, she could call a taxi and pay for it with the last of her cash. She’d have to charge a hotel room and figure out what to do from there.
Then an idea managed to filter its way into her muddled brain. It occurred to her that even though she was cutting the con short before it had really begun, she still needn’t leave with nothing. This house, after all, was chock full of valuable knick knacks that could be spirited away without anyone in the family being the wiser. A quick glance around her own room showed nothing promising, but Candy figured she could poke her head into a few rooms on her way out.
Slinging the duffel bag across her shoulder and wincing at the creeping numbness in her limbs, Candy pushed the chair aside and listened at the door for the sound of footsteps. She heard nothing, but became alarmed when her head drooped against the door, her eyes closing of their own accord. She snapped awake, not knowing if she’d been out for a second or an hour. What the hell was the matter with her? The horrible possibility dawned that Troy might have put something in her food, but why would he do that? As far as he was concerned, “Sonja” was here willingly and raring to get hitched. No, she had just eaten too much on top of the jet lag and fatigue, that was all.
She eased the bedroom door open and looked both ways down the hall, which was lit only by a few dim wall sconces. The coast seemed clear, so she forced herself out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
There were several doors on either side of the hall, all closed, and to Candy the whole thing resembled nothing so much as a fancy hotel corridor. The first two doors she tried were locked; the third opened onto a room containing nothing but an old sofa covered with a plastic dropcloth. Candy’s feet dragged along the carpet as she struggled to stay upright. Her vision was even starting to blur a little. Well, she could have a nap in the cab when she had gotten out of this madhouse.
The next room was empty except for a stack of framed photos and paintings, leaning so the images faced the wall. Candy remembered the blank squares on the wallpaper in the sitting room downstairs and wondered if these were the pictures that had been removed. She considered going in to look, but she was so tired, and besides, it seemed like a waste of time; paintings weren’t the most practical objects to steal. She closed the door again.
The next two rooms were also locked, and Candy was considering simply leaving the house empty-handed, as depressing a proposition as that was. But the next door, the one adjacent to the main staircase, opened easily, and a lamp had been left burning within.
She swayed on the threshold, finally managing to focus her vision. This had to be Troy’s room; there were his dress trousers, folded neatly over the back of a chair, and there was the only picture of herself that Candy had ever sent him, blown up to poster size and pinned to the wall above the headboard. She shuddered.
Candy stepped farther into the room, thinking maybe Troy had left some cash or a fancy wristwatch lying around. As she approached the nightstand, something on the bed caught her eye.
It was about the size of a cat, and furry. At first she thought it was a dead animal of some sort, and her heart skipped a beat, but as she peered closer she saw that it was only a wig, long and blonde and startlingly realistic. Despite her muzzy state, Candy had to smile. So that was one of Troy’s dirty little secrets, was it? Funny, she’d never have pegged him as the transvestite type…
Her smile faded as she realized what lay beside the wig. There, in a rumpled tangle, was a red and white striped women’s blouse and a black denim skirt.
It was the same outfit Troy’s mother had been wearing when Candy had seen her in the kitchen earlier that evening.
Her fogged brain reeled. What the hell kind of sick Norman Bates shit was going on here? Her terrified gaze slid away from the clothes and settled on the dresser, whose surface was littered with cosmetics, men’s and women’s jewelry, and a few bottles of gray hair coloring. Hanging from a peg above the dresser was another wig, this one a darker blonde, and styled in a pert bob. Troy had told her he had a sister, hadn’t he? Jesus Christ.
Forgetting the valuables, she turned to run, but her legs had gone to jelly, wobbling threateningly beneath her. Troy stood in the doorway, beaming at her as though she was the Virgin Mary. Candy heard the duffel bag hit the floor as it fell from her nerveless grasp. Then she heard Troy say, “I see you’re making the family’s acquaintance,” and then she heard and saw no more.
Candy was aware of sounds and voices, and for a moment she thought she was back in her apartment in Cleveland, and that she was dreaming. And then suddenly reality came flooding back.
“I told you this one was no different from the others!” hissed a deep voice, very close by. “They’re all the same, didn’t I tell you that? She had her bag, Troy, she was running away!”
Candy didn’t want to open her eyes; the images her mind was conjuring up were horrible enough. The feeling in her limbs had returned enough for her to discern that she was lying flat on her back, and that her wrists and ankles were restrained.
“But I got her to stay, Father!” That was Troy’s voice, plaintive and childlike. “I got Mother to put some medicine in her soup, just to make sure. It isn’t going to be like those other times, I swear it!”
“Technically speaking, none of those other girls ever left either,” said a young female voice, chuckling sardonically.
“Stop teasing him, Sue,” Alice admonished, though of course Candy knew who was really speaking, even without opening her eyes. Troy’s “mother” went on, “All we want is for this girl to work out. We can’t keep covering up for you when they don’t.”
“I know, Mother, I know!” exclaimed Troy, switching back to his regular voice without a pause. “And I appreciate all you’ve done for me. But this is different.”
Candy felt a hand on her arm, and her eyes flew open like a shot. Troy was standing over her, looking down at her with a rather frightening expression of plainly psychotic devotion. Candy raised her head as much as she was able, struggling against her bonds. She was clad in a stiff antique wedding dress, and shackled to what looked like a hospital bed. When she looked beyond herself, beyond the staring face of the doting Troy, and focused on her surroundings, she nearly screamed.
The walls around her were black and shiny, like thick rubber or vinyl-covered pads. Worse than this, though, were the metal instruments she could see suspended from pegs around the room’s oval perimeter. The objects all had long probing rods and sharp points sticking out at odd angles, and Candy didn’t even want to imagine where one would insert them.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She struggled mightily, thinking if she could just get through to Troy maybe she could talk him out of whatever he was planning to do.
Before she could get a word out, Troy put a finger gently to her lips. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’m very sorry about the slight change of plans. But I thought you weren’t quite as enthusiastic about the marriage as I would have liked, so I just gave you a little encouragement.” He reached into his pocket, and now Candy noticed that he was dressed in an old-fashioned tuxedo that smelled vaguely of mothballs. He opened his hand to show her the object her had retrieved: A thin gold band with three square diamonds mounted side by side.
“It was my wedding ring, and my mother’s before that,” Troy said, Alice’s voice emerging from his lips, as though he was possessed by a honey-throated demon.
Candy cried out as Troy slipped the ring onto her finger. “You killed them!” she said, not bothering with the Russian accent anymore. “You killed your whole family!”
Troy’s eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. “I’ll have you know that I, my wife, and my daughter Sue are very much alive,” he said in his Leonard voice. Then he switched to the Alice voice, with a simultaneous change in demeanor. “We did leave Troy alone for a while, we admit that,” Alice said with something that sounded like regret. “But when we saw how much he needed us, well…how could we stay away?” Troy smiled, a feminine, motherly smile.
Candy couldn’t stop the sobs from coming now. “You’re crazy,” she said, pushing and pulling against her bonds, all to no avail.
Troy slapped her, savagely, across the face. “Don’t ever say that,” he whispered, speaking as himself again. He pointed to the ring on her finger. “Do you see that? You’re my wife now, Sonja. And wives do as their husbands ask.”
“I’m not your wife!” Candy screamed, tears backing up in her eyes, blinding her. “My name’s not even Sonja, and I’m not even Russian, I’m from fucking Ohio…” Her chest hitched and she found it hard to catch her breath. This could not be happening, there was just no way…
“Listen to her, poor dear,” said the Alice-voice.
“Yeah, you sure she wanted to marry you, bro?” added the Sue-voice.
Troy’s own personality returned. “Sonja and I would like to be alone now,” he said tightly. There was a long pause, then he regarded his captive with something like real affection. “They’re gone now, darling.” He brushed her cheek where he had slapped it, as though trying to heal the wound with his touch. Then his fingers skipped lightly over her chin and her neck, finally coming to rest just at the swell of her breasts. He looked to be in ecstasy. Candy wanted to close her eyes, to make it all go away, but she didn’t dare.
“It’s going to be wonderful, my love,” he said, backing up a few steps and shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket. “Those other girls before, they would do some of what I wanted, go part of the way with me. But there was always a point where they would want to stop.” He was unbuttoning his shirt now, and the removing it to reveal his pale torso. “They were never as devoted to me as a wife would be,” he went on. “And I never brought them here, to this room.” He had stepped out of his pants and underwear, and stood before her, his naked form dimly reflected in the shiny black walls. “You’re the first one I ever brought in here,” he said reverently, gesturing around the room at all the instruments glimmering on their pegs. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
Troy grabbed a handful of Candy’s skirt and began shoving the lace and tulle bundle up toward her thighs. Candy did close her eyes then, knowing it wouldn’t help but no longer wanting to see what her fate would be. In the darkness behind the lids she pictured that first day sitting by her computer, answering that stupid personal ad and looking forward to another conquest, another cash-in. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She wished she were back there, safe in her single-girl squalor. She wished she was anywhere. She wished she was dead.
Candy heard a metallic clang as Troy removed one of the instruments from the wall, and then heard his quickening breath as he approached her, preparing himself to test the bonds of matrimony. Candy clenched her teeth, and hoped to Christ her agony would be brief.